


Cut Me To The Quick

by Spatz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-11 12:17:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spatz/pseuds/Spatz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel returned to life in the restroom of a small gas station near Ypsilanti, Michigan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cut Me To The Quick

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 5x01 Sympathy For The Devil.

Castiel returned to life in the restroom of a small gas station near Ypsilanti, Michigan.

He stumbled backwards, and tripped over the toilet. When he put out his hands to catch himself, the stall was sticky.

He was alive.

It was impossible, but he was _alive_.

An Enochian ward for concealment was scratched into the faded green paint of the door facing him, half-covered by phone numbers and crude insults. The sigil was a human's work, adapted from the original form but still powerful, and he wondered briefly what hunter knew such old magic, and why they would have tried to hide in a toilet stall.

All of which was inconsequential, of course. He suspected he was..."freaking out," as Dean would say, because he really should be curious why he was suddenly alive.

Outside the restroom, someone rapped loudly on the door. They sounded rather impatient, and seemed to share a vocabulary with the stall door writers. He ignored them. The stall had an unpleasant scent, but it was safe for the moment; he simply needed to focus.

Twelve hours had passed since Raphael ripped him to pieces, and he flinched away from the awareness that he hadn't existed anywhere in that time. He _must_ concentrate. He couldn't sense the Winchesters anywhere, but they must be alive, for neither side would leave their champions without a vessel. He needed information. If the other angels still believed he was dead, he might be able to listen to their conversations. Cautiously, he reached out for the familiar sound of the host.

The voices were sharp and chaotic, and he felt sick to hear the news. Lucifer had risen. Dean and Sam had failed. Somehow, they had escaped before he manifested and were at large; Lucifer was seeking a vessel, and the host was hunting for them all. The _entire_ host – right down to the lower ranks, the cupids and the guardians.

It wouldn't be long until the Winchesters were found, even if the witch had taught Sam how to make hex bags. And if Lucifer was truly free... With Lucifer free, they would need protection soon, before he took a vessel, for no mere witch's charm could ever block his sight.

Jimmy Novak was no longer with him, although his body retained the memory of his baser instincts - hunger, desire, comfort. Whatever power had resurrected Castiel had freed Jimmy's soul from mortal life, and Castiel hoped it was safely transported to Heaven. Surely, not even Zachariah would punish a vessel for his angel's rebellion.

Surely.

Not much was sure anymore. But there was no time to honor Jimmy's memory now, as there had been none for his fallen brothers and sisters. He was alone in this body, bound to it and all its limitations.

Perhaps he could use that. When the host came for him, they would have to fight on these terms, on this level – if he was cut off from Heaven, so was Heaven cut off from him. They would have to use vessels to kill him.

Angels were forbidden to alter their vessels. It was an old law, but a practical one - any angel might have need of the vessel again, and it was simpler to return the body to its original state, healing what needed repair and sometimes removing the memories of possession completely.

Castiel had pulled Dean Winchester from Hell and resurrected his body, had burned with frustration as writing on a wall destroyed seals and trapped angels, had chained the demon Alastair with iron and chalk. He knew the power of that earthly magic. Enochian sigils were more exacting than the sheer force of blood magic, but they could be far more potent through deliberate application, with attention to the form and nature of the spell – written in blood, wrought from iron, carved in bone.

It was blasphemy to even consider this, but he needed every advantage.

The ribs shielded the heart and lungs, hiding blood and breath away from the fragile shell of skin, so he carved a forbidden sigil of concealment into the curves of bone, repeating the symbols for protection on each rib so that a single broken bone would not also break the aegis. Health and stability for the sharp cradle of his pelvis; strength and speed for the long bones. He slashed spells for agility across his feet, etched dexterity along his fingers, drew flexibility up the length of his spine. Upon his scapulae, he set a prayer for silent flight.

He felt the magic settle like lightning under the skin of his vessel – _his_ skin, now. If he could find Sam and Dean, he could give them the sigil for protection as well, which would hide them even from Lucifer. He needed to hurry – there were new whispers from the host, something about a trap. Bobby Singer might know something, or the Winchesters might have returned to his house for help. It was his best option, and he prayed to the power that had saved him that he was not too late.

God had brought him back for a reason. He must have faith, and not fail him again.

Castiel spread his wings, and flew.


End file.
